feet of clay

I've been thinking the last few days about the idea of "feet of clay". The adopted son of the founder of Shambhala has been in the news. Ashoka Mukpo is an NBC journalist, recently transported home for treatment of Ebola. He seems like a decent person, working very hard to bring some attention to an often ignored part of the world.

His adopted father was Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, the founder of Shambhala Buddhism. He's the "feet of clay" I have been ruminating about this week. He is such a contradiction for me. He was a wise man, an excellent dharma teacher, with a beautiful vision for the realization of an enlightened society. His teachings form the basis for the buddhist training I have been pursuing the last couple of years. He was also a deeply flawed human being. He reputedly died from his alcoholism. He drank to excess, he smoked, he had affairs with his students, he abused his power as a spiritual leader.

This is the foundation on which I have built my path. I am old enough to realize that few people are wholly good, or wholly bad.  And I know the teachings to be sound, even if the teacher was not all that I would wish for. But part of me is embarrassed by the connection. I have turned it around and looked at it, and I think it is this -- I worry that his actions reflect badly on Shambhala, and that because this is my practice, it somehow reflects back on me. I hate to feel foolish. I hate to feel "duped". And on some level, this week, that is what I felt.

Oddly, I also felt more of a connection to the man than I did before. I have always preferred sinners to saints -- they are more human, more real to me. I cannot aspire to sainthood, but I can be a sinner who sticks to the path as much as I am able. I can be flawed, I can be damaged, and still not be disqualified from enlightenment. This is powerful, and freeing.

I don't know if the man was a terrible example, or a perfect one.

meditation - the good, the bad, and the ugly

I've noticed that most articles on meditation focus solely on the good stuff -- the reduction in stress, the health benefits, the improvements in focus and clarity. All those things are true. You really do get all these things from meditation. And I am a huge believer that the benefits outweigh the costs. But there are some costs.

I've lost a few things as my practice has progressed. And I've run into difficulties I didn't know I would encounter.

I didn't know that sometimes meditation is difficult, other times downright scary. I spent a few weeks where I was afraid to sit and meditate, because every time I had during that time period, I was immediately drowning in suppressed memories. I had spent almost 50 years erecting walls in my mind, hiding even from myself. And in an extremely painful 4-6 week period, as i would meditate, the walls would come down. And i would remember. Just like I was there, back at whatever time, with the full immediacy of the event. It was shattering. I wasn't a very nice person, for a lot of my life. Sitting with that, feeling that, was awful. I had also buried just a ton of pain. It hit me hard, when the walls came down. Was it a good thing? Ultimately, I think it was the only thing. It was something that I absolutely had to go through. But I wish I had known that it might happen. Maybe it wouldn't have been so disorienting.

I have had periods of time where meditating made me very emotionally labile. I easily get choked up by emotion -- I have even cried at Kodak commercials. But not at this level, not this way. Other people's pain was nearly overwhelming. I would literally cry driving to work, just from the normal street life I would see every day. I would burst out laughing, for no real reason. My emotions were just very much at the surface. It was another phase that went away, as abruptly as it came. But again, it would have been nice to know -- hey this can happen, too.

The losses are few, but there are things I miss. I can't eat pork any more. I miss ribs, pulled pork, pork chops, BACON. But I think pigs are sentient, and I just can't willingly harm them as a result. I fear beef is also about to disappear from my diet -- for much the same reason. I just can't do it any more; it makes me feel sad when I see a cow and know it's going to die so someone can eat it.

I spent most of my life fishing with my dad. I love being on the water, the sounds of the water against the boat, the smells, the sound of sea birds. I love casting, dropping my line exactly where I want it to go. There is a lovely physical connection from hand to rod to line to water.  I love that sudden aliveness that says there is a fish on the line. But I can't do it any more. The last time I went, we had a day fishermen dream of. Over 20 fish. And I ended up silently apologizing to every single one of them as I took the hook out of their mouths. I felt like a killer. I was pulling them from their lives, for my own amusement. I didn't NEED to eat them. I did it for fun. So that was my last fishing trip. I'll miss it.

I used to listen to music all day. I had a stereo in my office. I would walk in, pump up the tunes, so I could get through my day. Fast music to get me started; angry music on bad days, dance music to get through rote tasks. I needed it. But now I can't listen to music in the background. It has a depth and richness I didn't notice before -- I love it more, but it takes more attention from me. I can't put it on and do something else. And I don't need it any more; I have discovered silence and can now work without backing noise for the first time in my life.

I have lost much of my wit, as well. I used to have a sharp sort of humor, but I find that I can't joke that way any more. No zingers, no jokes at someone's expense. I still laugh a lot, and I still joke around, but I am so much more careful now. I worry that it makes me boring. That maybe I'm not as much fun to be around now. I can't go back, though, and start channeling Dorothy Parker again.

I can live with all these losses, because of all the things I have gained - joy, peace of mind, quiet, health. It seems worth it.

stretching in different directions

I am not a joiner. I am not one of those people who volunteers. I am more of a "slouch down in my seat and hope they don't call on me" type of person. Partly it's that I am fairly busy; I work full time, I go to school, and I try to spend time with family and friends as much as possible. But that's only part of it. Really, volunteering is like stepping into the void; you are out there, hanging, without support. Yet I want to help, I really do. 

So I started looking for a volunteer opportunity at the Shambhala Center, one that would somehow mesh with my crazy schedule. They put out a call for morning umdze volunteers, and that sounded perfect. It's an hour one day a week, in the morning before work. Of course, I really had no idea what an umdze does, other than sit up front and meditate facing the group.

here's what they do:

The Umdze, or Timekeeper, has overall responsibility for each public meditation session. The umdze opens the Center, pays attention to the physical environment (orderliness, temperature, lighting), opens the shrines, leads chants (when appropriate), signals alternating sitting/walking periods, closes the shrines, and locks up.  Performing as Umdze is an opportunity to deepen one’s own practice as well as serving the sangha.

So, I didn't read the description before volunteering. And I really really didn't think through the whole "open the center" part; it means getting up at 5:30am, and being at the center by 6:50am. I am not a morning person. I am NOT a morning person. 
 I had only been to the center in the evening -- it turns out the morning session is different. for one thing, it has chants. OH SHIT!!. I volunteered to do something that involved sitting up front and CHANTING. I can't carry a tune. I have no rhythm. Is it wimpy to just back out, say sorry, didn't know?
I spent the first couple of weeks ducking the issue. I open up, turn on the lights. I learned how to set up the altar. I lit the candles, filled the water bowls, lit incense, put out the chant books. I learned how to make the tea for the shrine. All of this is very ritualized, very precise. There is an order to it all, and I found I really enjoyed it. 

But I let the person training me do the actual timekeeping and chanting. I acted as support. I took home a chant book to practice. I practiced. And I practiced. And each week, the trainer asked if I wanted to take a turn leading, and each week I said I wasn't ready.

This morning, I took the seat up on the dais, faced the group, and went through the ritual of timekeeping. I rang the gong three times. I said 3 of the 4 opening chants. I rang in the session. I meditated and watched the clock. I lead the walking meditation, remembered to light the incense, rang the next sitting. I did the closing chants. 

I made many mistakes, mostly small, I think. I skipped the longest chant, the Heart Sutra, because I still stumble over it and make a mosh of it. The experience was not horrible. It was not nearly as uncomfortable as I thought it would be. Everyone is facing you, but they aren't really looking at you. They are looking at a representative, a figurehead. So that "oh god, everyone is looking at me" feeling just wasn't there.

 I was surprised at how different in quality the session was for me. I felt responsible. I didn't want to move or fidget or make the slightest sound because I felt I had to create an atmosphere that would support the people in the room. I felt like I was meditating for them rather than for myself alone. 

I have a lot more training to do, I think. But I like how it feels, stretching in different directions.